


Just Trying To Maintain

by morganya



Category: A Bit of Fry and Laurie RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-29
Updated: 2005-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The illusion of connection."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Trying To Maintain

He goes to a gym on La Brea three times a week, one of those 24-hour, at-your-service-sir gyms that seem so prominent over here. He has his own trainer, which really seems absurd when he thinks about it, a powerfully built ex-middleweight named Davey. They're not exactly friends - Davey's shown him pictures of his dogs and children a few times, but otherwise it's terribly businesslike. They have a routine: say hello, how've you been, then into the ring and thirty minutes of sparring, see you later, until next time.

If there's no time for sparring, he turns to the bag, throwing uppercuts against the canvas with a satisfying _thwack thwack thwack_ as his fists connect, the canvas denting and rebounding under the blows, his taped knuckles aching, even with his gloves on. He finishes dripping with sweat, shaking all over, but the bag always seems none the worse for wear.

All in all, he prefers the sparring. He hops from side to side in the ring as Davey - pulling his punches, he knows, but only slightly - rabbit-punches at his guard-encased head and mouth, connecting more often than not, just hard enough to make his ears ring.

Hugh thinks there's something to be said for it; there's nothing that keeps you grounded like a good punch to the head.

*****

Lisa asks him, "Isn't it weird how everyone has a theatre degree nowadays?"

She's folded into a chair during what counts as the on-set lunch hour, where they all bulldoze through craft service while the crew sets up the next shot, still in Cuddy's close-fitting tweed suit. Plate on her lap, vitamins by her side, she looks professional and cheerful as always.

Hugh stretches beside her. "Well, you're all terribly dedicated about it here." His voice still sounds unfamiliar to him, after all this time; it's too difficult for him to get the accent back if he allows himself to speak naturally in between takes, so he tries to keep the rhythm of House's dark bluesy voice all day, just trying to maintain.

She grins at him. "I thought they were all about the craft over in England. Shakespeare's homeland."

"Well, yes, but that's just in our blood, you see. We don't need to actually work at it."

She laughs and nibbles carefully at a stick of carrot; she's still on the raw food diet, he guesses. Lisa has that rather touching American trust in diets - purify your body, cleanse your soul with your food. He never knew fruit was on the path to enlightenment.

One of the cameramen curses behind him, struggling under the weight of the handheld. Hugh wonders if this means more delay. It seems to him that about eighty to ninety percent of their job involves just sitting around and waiting.

He wishes he had a cigarette, something to do with his hands. It's times like this that he remembers how he used to pass the time with Stephen, stuck out in the middle of the BBC trying to amuse each other; sometimes it was magic tricks and sometimes it was Stephen latching on to some meaningless phrase and repeating it until it suddenly became painfully funny, or sometimes he'd babble away, trying to be clever, and Stephen would be tolerant and chuckle in his deep, rolling way.

He sometimes misses Stephen rather a lot.

"They invited us to a viewing on Saturday," Lisa says, startling him out of the gloom. "Before they make the final edits on the episode. Feel like coming?"

He considers for a moment. He doesn't think there's a polite way of bowing out of this. He's said no too many times to too many invitations. The truth is, he can't really face the thought of spending an hour just looking at himself on screen.

"Or maybe you'd like to spend some time alone," she says, gracefully offering him the out.

"I tend not to be fit for human contact on the weekend."

"I'm somehow doubtful, Hugh."

He smiles. "You've only been getting my best side."

Lisa smiles back at him. She puts her plate to the side, poised, neat. "Well, if you change your mind."

Lisa lives up in the Hills with a partner she's careful not to name, a battalion of rescued dogs, a small gray cat. She radiates good health, cheerfulness, warmth - she was made for California, it was made for her, it must be one or the other.

Lisa is one of those actors who have a degree, who've been trained in theatre, the ones she jokes about. Most of his castmates have degrees, training - Omar, Robert, Jennifer. They understand better than almost anyone else how to actually be an actor, how to make it all seem effortless.

The few times he's managed to watch the show, he can't help comparing himself, picking himself apart. It's too hard to watch; he pulls stupid faces and grapples with the accent. He doesn't want to remind himself of it, not when he's surrounded by Americans who understand just that much better how to make it seem effortless.

It's likely that he never had to work back home, really, not in the same way. He's said a few times that everything just fell into his lap, generously granted by his friends. He's not had to scrounge for jobs.

Maybe he'd be a better actor if he had.

*****

His apartment in Los Angeles is clean and spare, with just enough room for the creature comforts - his piano, his books, his records. In the early mornings, before the California smog starts to settle over the city, he has coffee and a cigarette out on the balcony, where he can feel like the only person in the world for a bit, before he gets up and goes to get the bike and go to work.

He likes his routines, his little habits; everything else always feels like it's in constant danger of being overturned. He needs something to fall back on.

Sometimes he misses England, when he thinks about it; he wants rain and clouds and familiar narrow streets. Los Angeles as a city seems endless, too open, too empty but for the traffic on the road.

All in all, he thinks he can live with a bit of homesickness. It's not so much to bear, really.

He still finds himself firing off an email to Stephen when he gets back from work at some ungodly hour of the night, keeping it short and to the point, like a telegram: _Feel I'm going rather mad. Send help. Cavalry would do, or just a very small man with a stick._

*****

When he can't sleep at night, and he's feeling too stubborn to get up and pace the floorboards, he listens to the sound of people crashing their cars outside and thinks about what will never happen to him. It makes a nice substitute for television; his fantasy life's always been intense, probably too much so, and it's easy to get lost in it.

He dreams that he breaks up international spy rings, wins gold medals in Athens, plays 'Round Midnight at the Royal Albert Hall; they all seem to be separate from each other but still in the same continuum, as though he races to the concert hall with his medals still draped around his neck.

Sometimes he dreams of fighting for the heavyweight championship of the world, going up against someone who sometimes looks like Lennox Lewis and sometimes like Muhammad Ali in the early sixties, dancing gracefully under the bright lights, shaking sweat and blood from his eyes, until they raise his arms and place the heavy belt around him, and he sees himself bruised and battered and triumphant before the crowd.

He is brave, heroic, adored while his eyes are closed. For a few hours at least, he can be perfect.

Then it's always the morning and he gets up and makes himself coffee, trying to keep his eyes away from the relentless sunshine.

*****

It's Saturday, ten at night, when the phone rings. He's sprawled out on the couch, feet hanging off the edge, and he languidly reaches for the receiver and murmurs a "Hello."

"I didn't think I'd find you in," Stephen tells him. "Isn't America a kind of out all night, spend the next morning wondering why you're been painted blue place?"

"Stephen," he says, sitting upright, startled to find himself amazed, "I wasn't expecting this."

"Well, Hugh, you really can't expect me to read emails demanding that I send round a - what was it? - a tiny man with an enormous branch, and _not_ want to phone you."

"I think you must be exaggerating," he says. Stephen sounds crackly over the telephone wire, a little worn, a little older. "It's just a surprise, that's all."

"I take it that America's not turning out to be quite the plenteous continent of rapture." He could almost be joking, but there's that familiar tone behind the words - schoolmaster hiding worry behind a scolding tone. Hugh feels like an utter git. Stephen always worries, even when there's no need, and he knows, he just knows that Stephen's only calling now because he's worked himself into an anxious froth. Over him.

"I'm getting used to it," he says. "It's the most extraordinary thing, Stephen, do you know that it seems everyone in Los Angeles is in show business?"

"You must be joking, my dear."

"Swear I'm not."

"But you're finding everyone charming and they're being kind to you?"

"You're making that into a question. Why is that a question?"

"Because I'm trying to stop you from dodging me, Hugh."

"I don't _dodge_."

"No, but you do attempt to lie. And, might I say, you do it spectacularly badly."

Hugh sighs.

"Well, I've done enough lying myself to recognize it. Those old familiar lingual tics."

Something chirps in the background behind Stephen's voice. It sounds like early morning, birds and milk trucks.

"What time is it there?"

"It is _ungodly_ early."

"Up early or up late, Stephen?"

There's no answer for a moment. "Does it really matter so much?"

"You sound like hell."

"And you haven't answered me."

Of course they lie to each other sometimes, the way everyone does. It's just that they've known each other too long for it to work.

Stephen, in particular, has a way of making him face himself when he doesn't want to.

"Everyone's very charming," Hugh says. "It's only me. It usually is."

"Well, you're very charming, Hugh."

"I fake it well enough."

Stephen sighs tolerantly, a come-on-get-it-out-of-your-system exhalation. Hugh looks across the room. Outside the windows Los Angeles seems ablaze with electric light.

"Hugh," Stephen says quietly.

"I'm just waiting for it to go wrong," Hugh says, just as quietly. "I think - it sounds ridiculous -"

"What does?"

"I'm only waiting for them to find me out, Stephen."

"It always surprises me that you find it so hard to believe that people love you."

"It's not -" He's tired of arguing. He shoves himself off the couch with a frustrated hiss. "I want to go home."

"And I want you to come home."

"Stephen -"

"I don't think it's likely that either of us will get what we want just yet."

"No," he says. "No, I suppose not."

For a moment, nobody says anything.

"We'll play some chess," Stephen says, trying to smooth it over, make everything all right again. "Go gamble and carouse and gallivant all over London. When you're back again."

"Yeah," he says. "Of course."

"Hugh -"

"It's all right," he says. "It's all right, I'm fine. I'll email you."

"Email," Stephen says. "It's a wonder, isn't it? Gives the illusion of connection."

"Doesn't it just," he whispers, and hangs up.

He goes out on the balcony. He smokes a cigarette with his eyes shut against the electric lights, feeling emptiness drape across his shoulders like an old familiar friend.


End file.
